Coins & Thimbles: Yet Another 'What If' Story
by S. Faith
Summary: What if Jude had had the sense God gave her and did NOT let Daniel in at Bridget's birthday dinner? M for adult situations.


Coins and Thimbles: Yet Another 'What If?' Story

by S. Faith © 2006

This time: What if, at Bridget's birthday dinner, Jude had had the sense God gave her and did _not_ let Daniel in?

Because I always loved playing out stories as a child with fashion dolls. These just happen to belong to Helen Fielding.

* * *

"So, who was at the door?" enquired Bridget.

Four pairs of eyes fixed on Jude Russell, whose dark brown eyes shot an intense look at Bridget, widening ever so slightly. "Wrong flat. Shazzer, why don't we clear the table?"

Jude fixed that same intense look on Shaz, who instantly knew as well as Bridget did that there was something Jude wasn't saying. _Someone_ had been at that door and for some reason Jude did not want to say who. "Of course." She stood up and hastened with Jude to clear the plates away to the sink. Smiling at Tom and then over to her unexpected guest, Mark Darcy, Bridget darted her eyes to over the kitchen to see Shaz hunched close to Jude. Shaz looked back to the table covertly and caught Bridget's eyes.

"Sorry we didn't bake you a cake," lamented Tom.

"It's all right. I don't have an overwhelming need to blow out candles."

"Did you know," offered Mark, "that in medieval times it was tradition to mix coins and thimbles into the cake batter?"

"Really?" asked Tom. "Why coins and thimbles?"

"The coin meant wealth was in your future if you found it in the cake," Mark continued. "The thimble was supposed to mean one would never…" He cleared his throat, suddenly looking regretful he had started this thread of conversation. "…marry."

Tom laughed uproariously. "Even in the Middle Ages there were love pariahs," he said at last.

Bridget commented darkly, "The thimble's surely the one that would have found its way to me." Her thoughts were still primarily in the kitchen as she swirled the dregs of her wine around the bottom of the cup before setting it down. "Excuse me for one moment, will you?" She stood from the table, impatient to hear what Shaz had to say, carrying the remaining dishes and silverware to the sink.

In a hushed tone, Bridget asked, "Are you going to let me in on the secret?"

Shaz and Jude looked to one another before Jude said, "It was _Daniel_."

Her stomach flipped. She suddenly understood the secrecy. Daniel and Mark in the same room would have been like fire and petrol with the history they had together, which Bridget had of course told her friends all about. And there was, of course, her own history with Daniel, who'd chucked her for an American stick insect. Lovely, protective friends. If she saw Daniel again, he might have smooth-talked his way back into her life (and her bed), and that would have done her no good. He was a fuckwit bastard and she didn't need to see him again, ever, ever, _ever_.

"Oh. Thanks."

Jude nodded. "Don't mention it."

She glanced to the dining room, saw – strangely enough – Mark looking directly at her, and Tom's head turning from Mark towards the kitchen and to Bridget, one brow lifting in the manner of Mr Spock.

"So," said Tom suddenly. "Presents!"

They retired to the living room, Bridget taking the sofa, Shaz sitting beside her, Tom and Jude taking the smaller chairs, leaving the larger blue chair directly opposite the sofa for Mark. Tom appropriated a red folding table from beside the blue chair, moved it near the sofa, and stacked Bridget's gifts onto it.

She chose Tom's present first, three individually wrapped something-or-others. She opened the card – risqué, as expected, and therefore not shared – then tore open the presents one by one. The thin one was a pocket calendar with folk art cat paintings. The second gift opened was a paperback book, something called _Single and Loving It_. The third gift was a DVD: _Fatal Attraction_.

"Thank you, Tom… I think," she said, looking askance to Tom, who beamed proudly. "You're not trying to tell me something, are you?"

"Of course not, darling!"

She turned to the smaller gift from Jude, opening the card to find a £20 gift card for The Body Shop, and a lovely scented candle in a mosaic-glass votive holder.

"Aw— thanks, Jude." She glanced up to smile affectionately at Jude, only to realise Mark was regarding her intently, the suggestion of a smile on his face. Hastily she returned her attention to the table, grabbing Shaz's present. The card came first, funny and sentimental, then she unwrapped the box, which read Marks & Spencer Lingerie.

She looked to Shaz, panic flashing across her eyes. She had serious reservations about opening a potentially embarrassing lingerie gift in front of Mark Darcy. She supposed it was because she had humiliated herself in front of him enough for one lifetime. Shaz, however, nodded ever so slightly. Message received: safe for present company.

She opened the box to find the lovely white casual cotton pyjama set with black embroidery she had admired while they'd been shopping a few weeks ago, the top tank-style and the bottoms with a lovely scallop trim around the ankles. "Pyjamas," she explained in lieu of actually holding them up. "Very nice! Very soft. Thank you." She reached to give Shaz a quick hug, then set the presents down on floor by her feet.

Suddenly a voice came quietly from the blue chair. "I'm sorry I didn't bring a gift for you."

She looked up to meet Mark's eyes. With a nonchalant wave she said, "It's okay. Besides, it isn't as if you knew it was my birthday before you got here."

"Well, actually, I did know," he admitted sheepishly. "My mother mentioned it when she called me back with your address."

"Oh."

Bridget observed the pointed exchange of glances between the friends. Mark either did not notice, or chose to ignore it.

Tom was overtaken by a yawn, then embarrassedly covered his mouth. "Well, I don't know about the lot of you, but I must be up early in the morning. I thank you, my dear Bridgeline, for the most excellent blue soup I have ever had the pleasure of eating."

"Chuh. Likely the _only_ blue soup you've ever had the pleasure of eating."

Tom rose from his chair. "Very true. Ladies, until our next night out. Mark, lovely to meet you at last."

Gah! 'At last'! As much as admitting Bridget had talked about Mark to her friends. Bridget mentally noted at some point in future to soundly thump Tom, who aside from this had, just before the opening of the gifts, used Mark's private admission of liking her just as she was for his toast. Tom walked to where Bridget sat on the sofa, bending to loudly smack a kiss on her cheek. "I'll let myself out. Happy birthday, lovely girl."

"Thank you, Tom. Good night."

As he departed, Shaz rose from her chair. "We—" Shaz began, darting her gaze from Jude to Mark to Bridget, "—must be off as well. Happy birthday."

"Yes," reiterated Jude, standing.

Oh God. It suddenly occurred to her what they were doing: leaving her alone with Mark. Which wasn't awful, as he seemed a genuinely nice man, quite attractive once the reindeer jumper was out of the mix, and eminently more likeable than she ever imagined… but it was terribly presumptuous of them. Did Shaz, Jude and Tom think their appearance at the flat had interrupted something more than just cooking?

They motioned she shouldn't get up, then each bent in turn to give her a hug, grabbing their jackets and bolting for the door (or so it appeared to Bridget).

"Well. I guess it's time to call it a night then," said Mark as he stood. If he thought there was anything amiss about the rapidity of her friends' departures, he didn't show it. Bridget rose as well, as it was only proper to walk a guest to the door.

He walked over to the dining room table to retrieve his suit jacket from the back of the seat he'd occupied, donning it then fastening the buttons. "Thank you for a very… _interesting_ evening. I'm glad you invited me to stay; I had a nice time." They descended the stairs together, she just behind him.

"So did I. Though I'm sure you weren't expecting me to spring a rubbish feast on you. We would have starved without your omelet."

He opened the door, turning back to her where she stood on the lowest step, their eyes level. Neither said anything for many moments.

"Good night, then," he said at last.

He leaned towards her and to his right, intending (presumably) to peck her on the left cheek. She tilted her head ever so slightly to oblige, except at the last moment he changed course and turned to his left.

It all happened in a split-second, but it did happen: their lips met fully. It was short-lived, for in their surprise each pulled back in immediate reflex. It almost felt to Bridget as if she'd brushed her lips against a live wire, and absently she touched her fingertips to her mouth.

Mark was obviously mortified at the _faux pas_. "I'm sorry."

Bridget replied, returning from her reverie, "No apology necessary – I shouldn't have moved." However, she found herself thinking it wasn't so bad that she had. She considered the numerous times she'd glanced up to catch him looking at her. There was no mistaking his continued interest even after a culinary disaster such as the one she'd subjected him to that night. There was also no mistaking that spark just now. "A—actually, it's still early yet. I wouldn't mind – that is to say, if you'd like to stay a little longer, that would be—" Her voice dropped with anticipated disappointment. "Um, unless you have… other plans." Visions of the domineering, dark-haired, svelte Natasha popped into her head.

He contemplated her offer, then smiled, closing the door to the flat. "I'd like very much to stay."

She smiled, turning and heading back up the stairs into the flat. Bridget stopped in the foyer, facing him again, pursing her lips with an uncertain smile. If they were going to spend time together, they were definitely going to need to get over the awkward silences.

"I…" began Mark unsurely, glancing into the kitchen, "…could help with the washing up."

"That's really not necessary."

"No, no, I insist." He strode into the kitchen, slipping back out of his suit jacket and resting in on the blue chair he'd recently occupied, then removing his tie and setting it with the jacket. Turning back to her tie-less was when she noticed the top button of his shirt was undone. "After all, you cooked. So it wouldn't be fair to make you do the washing up as well."

She snorted. "'Cooked'. What a laugh."

"It was from the heart," he said sincerely as he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, "even though it, um, wasn't very good."

That was a sweet thing to say despite the disparaging (though true) commentary on the food, and she smiled. She also realised how well the casual dishevelment of household chores suited him.

He put the stopper in the sink and started running the water. "Where's your washing up liquid?" he asked, scanning the countertop.

"On the windowsill," she said, pointing out the obvious. He laughed.

And so they became participants in a little domestic vignette, he washing the dishes and she drying and putting them away. Every time he turned to hand her a plate, he had a grin on his face; she found herself grinning back. In the middle of scouring out the particularly nasty caper berry gravy saucepan, he asked, "So what was that all about earlier?"

"What do you mean?"

He turned to look at her briefly, a smile still lighting his eyes. "I'm not an idiot. Someone came to the door earlier that everyone wishes had not, and for some reason it's a state secret."

By no means did she think Mark Darcy was an idiot. There was no reason to answer his query with anything but honesty. "It was Daniel Cleaver."

He paused mid-scrub. "Oh."

She did not hesitate to elaborate. "I certainly did _not_ want to see him, and my friends knew that. Plus I'm sure he wouldn't want to see you."

He finished that pan and handed it to her to dry. "With good reason." He stopped, leaning on the edge of the sink momentarily. "I'll never forgive him for what he did to me. Frankly I'd just as soon punch him in the face than talk to him."

Mention of violence from this apparent gentleman startled her, especially when it was Daniel that had been wronged. "What _he_ did to _you_?" she asked incredulously.

He pulled the last saucepan into the sink and began scouring with great intensity. His voice was rather quieter than it had been. "He was my mate at Cambridge, the best man at my wedding, and the reason my wife left me. I caught them… _together_ on the floor of our bedroom."

She could only blankly stare at Mark in shock, and her silence caused him to stop to look to her. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look a bit pale."

"I'm fine," she said, not at all feeling fine. Everything she thought was true was a lie. Mark's version of events fit so perfectly with Daniel's standard operating procedure that she was astonished she hadn't questioned it before. She certainly didn't question the veracity of what Mark was saying now; the level of pain in his voice was far too genuine.

He set that final pan down on the side of the sink, pulled the plug out of the drain, and turned to her. "Let me guess," he said at last, drying his hands on a tea towel. "He told you the opposite. That I'd slept with one of his girlfriends, broke his heart."

"Fiancée," she supplied in a quiet, unsteady voice. She felt perfectly stupid at having bought the transparent falsehood. Between Mark's little speech after the Smug Married dinner party and his easy, friendly manner that night, she had developed a fondness for the man despite what she thought he'd done. And now to find he hadn't done it at all…

"Ah." There was more than a touch of concern on his face as he spoke again. "I'm glad you stopped me from answering Sharon's question earlier… because I would've hated to be the cause of you looking like this during your birthday dinner."

"Really, I'm fine." She looked up to him. "I thought you were just being spiteful."

"What?"

"At the Tarts & Vicars party, when you said he wasn't good enough for me." A short, ironic laugh escaped her lips. "Looks like you knew better after all."

"I'm not often sorry to be right, but I am in this instance. Bridget." He unexpectedly reached forward and took her hands into his. "What I said Sunday night is still true: I like you."

"Even though I'm an appalling cook?"

"Especially because you're an appalling cook," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

If he was trying to make her feel better, he wasn't doing a very good job. Besides, it wasn't as if he was unattached. She lowered her eyes, gathered her wits, stopping short of withdrawing her hands from his, which felt quite nice cradling hers. "You have a girlfriend already."

He sighed. "No, I don't. Not really. I mean, I take her out on occasion… but… well… we're not together."

"She seemed to think differently the other night."

He sighed. "Sure, I took her to the Tarts & Vicars and we went together to Jeremy's dinner party. We are friends (if that) and co-workers, and she may have her own designs on me— but Bridget, I have _no_ romantic feelings for her." Hands already captured, he squeezed them gently then pulled her a step closer to him. "I couldn't when I can't stop thinking about _you_."

It was one thing to have an admission that he liked her, but this seemed to be something more. She raised her eyes to him, studying his face, so earnest and handsome. She thought of how kind he was, helping to rescue her pathetic dinner and wash up afterwards, very indicative of his general character. And she remembered what she'd thought of his backside prior to the reveal of the reindeer jumper: _ding-dong_.

"Why do you think I came here tonight?" he continued, stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs.

"The interview today?" she asked, thinking of the newspaper he'd brought.

He chuckled. "Well, yes, on the surface. I was really hoping to take you out for dinner so that I might persuade you that I'm really not the horribly rude, excessively haughty man you met at the Turkey Curry Buffet. And again at the book launch, Tarts & Vicars, dinner on Sunday… Oh, _God_." He grimaced, releasing her hands, stepping back to lean against the counter, briefly pressing his hands to his face. "…the living end of insufferable."

"You _were_ rather insufferable, weren't you?" she agreed, giving him a sidelong glance, and cracking the barest hint of a smile, which caused him to smile too.

"The fact that you used the past tense just now is very encouraging."

She lifted her head to the side in acknowledgment, allowing herself a full smile. "Finding out you didn't do the one thing that made me think you were a nasty bastard helped quite a lot." He visibly cringed when she said the word 'bastard', and once again it pained her that she'd ever believed Daniel. "I am kind of sorry we didn't get to go out, though," she admitted.

"We could still."

"It's not _that_ early."

"I didn't mean tonight," he said, resting the heels of his hands back against the kitchen countertop, a posture that greatly accentuated what was beneath that button-down shirt. It was an unconscious move on his part, but it had not gone unnoticed by Bridget.

_Ding-dong._

"Ah," she said lamely.

"Besides, I couldn't have had a nicer time with you tonight than I did, the food, the strange domestic quality of our time together, and the fact that your friends were here, notwithstanding." He continued to hold her gaze. "That they left so early only raises my estimation of them."

"A little weird as first dates go." She realised that's kind of what it had been.

"Entirely appropriate, considering." He turned to look at the pantries. "Well. Why don't we pretend we've just returned from dinner at… say… the Gilded Bichon Frise—" She laughed at the made-up name. "—and have a nightcap together?"

"Yes, excellent idea."

"I'll pour." He turned to the cupboards in search of glasses. She stepped to the living room to gather the gifts up from underfoot and switch down the brightness of the lamp.

He called from the kitchen, "Do you have brandy or port?"

"Sorry, no," she called back. "Best I can offer is Bailey's."

"Ah. Found it."

She sat near the raised end of the _chaise longue_-style sofa, and he soon followed with two small tumblers of Irish cream whiskey over ice. He seated himself and handed one to her, holding his up in a gesture of toast.

"To second chances."

"_Second_ chances?" she asked in astonishment. "There wasn't a first chance."

"Sure there was. Our mothers (and Una Alconbury) were so obviously trying to set us up at the Turkey Curry Buffet." He rested back against a pillow. "I don't know about you, but I was – God, I hate to admit it now – _so_ sick of hearing about you from my mother at that point, and we were both dressed so badly… I blew it."

She thought of the harping by her own mother for months in advance of the Turkey Curry Buffet, the ugly carpet-like dress she had worn, and his own awful jumper. "We both blew it. All right. To second chances, then." They clinked glasses and took a drink.

The glasses were not large, volume-wise, and thus half the Bailey's went down in one swallow. Another sip and it was gone; she set her glass onto the red table. He did as well, then raised his eyes to look at her, an intensity about his gaze that surprised her.

"Would you like another?" she asked unsurely after what felt like an eternity under this scrutiny.

"That's not what I'd like at all," he said quietly, reaching to cup her face in his hand, his courage perhaps fortified by the whiskey. He had a gentle touch and very soft hands. She closed her eyes under the persuasion of the light stroke of his thumb upon her cheek. Hearing her name spoken in a whisper, she met his gaze again. He leaned forward slowly, so that if she had any objections, she could have voiced them.

She had none to voice.

Her lids drooped as she felt him come close, his warm breath upon her cheek, and then his lips were upon hers, quick and feather-like, before a firmer, more insistent kiss that she found she was eager to reciprocate. Her lips parted and he claimed them fully, his fingers moving to settle at the nape of her neck.

His free hand slid up her right arm to her shoulder, and she lifted her chin as he placed tender kisses upon her jawline and throat. She ran her fingers over the cotton covering his chest, then up to his shoulder to pull him back with her as she leaned against the arm of the sofa. Nuzzling into her neck, the backs of his fingers stroked her face, then traced along where her pulse throbbed, down past her collarbone, tentatively hovering his palm just over her breast. When he returned his kiss to her mouth she was quite eager to receive it, snaking her arms about his neck and stretching upward enough for his hand to meet its presumed destination with enthusiastic pressure.

Never in a million years would she have guessed the evening would turn in the direction it had, snogging madly on the sofa with the straight-laced, over-perfect Mark Darcy. What surprised her even more was the fact that she was reveling in the attentions he lavished on her, much more than she ever imagined she would.

With the strong impression of his hands still lingering on her body, resting back against the sofa, and utterly breathless, Bridget did not realise at first that he had retreated from her. She opened her eyes (it was something of a chore) to see he had resumed his original position, looking away from her. "Mark?" she asked.

"Sorry," he whispered.

She sat up straight. "'Sorry'? What for?"

"Taking… liberties."

She actually laughed out loud, which caused him to turn back to her. "You weren't taking anything I wasn't offering," she said wryly.

"I only meant… to _kiss_ you," he offered instead, seemingly determined to paint himself as a villain.

"Believe me, you'd know if I objected to anything beyond a kiss."

"Bridget," he said, reaching for her hand, grasping it fervently. "This is happening so fast. I mean, there is no way you had even one positive opinion of me prior to my apology on Sunday night."

"Now that's not true." She placed her other hand over his, thoughtfully pondering an earlier remembrance. "At the Turkey Curry Buffet, when I saw you from behind… I thought you had a nice arse."

Speechless, he actually crimsoned.

"So. As you were." She leaned towards him, reaching out to rake her fingernails back through his hair, at which his restraint fell away and he dove forward to kiss her again, taking her in his arms.

…

Perhaps she _had_ acted a little hastily, Bridget reflected as she laid curled in bed, mesmerised by the flickering flame of the bedside candle through the dozens of tiny multi-coloured glass mosaic pieces comprising its container. But when all was said and done, there were no regrets. It had turned out to be a very good birthday. One excellent pair of comfortable, new, well-fitting pyjamas (now in a pile on the floor by the bed), and one gorgeous votive holder illuminating the room in a myriad of soft hues. The calendar would come in handy for planning, oh, for example, dates. She also had definite plans for that gift card: massage oils, bubble baths, and so on. Granted, she'd also scored a potentially (and hopefully) unnecessary book and a movie she'd try to forget she'd ever seen, but all in all, thought Bridget with a sigh, as she felt the arm around her waist stirring and tightening as Mark returned to wakefulness, it might well have been the best birthday she'd ever had.

She felt his bristly cheek brush up against her shoulder and a tender kiss planted on the curve of her neck before she heard his husky voice softly murmur in her ear, "Still convinced you might've gotten the thimble?"

Bridget chuckled, turning over so that their noses practically touched, looking at the candlelight playing along his cheek, twinkling in his eyes as he looked at her. It was delightful to be the object of such a gaze. She realised that her opinion of a be-thimbled destiny was rapidly changing.

"Never let it be said that you didn't bring a present," she began, reaching to kiss him again. "I think you gave me the best one of them all."

_The End._

* * *

**Notes:**

Okay, so there were some parallels at the end there to the last 'What if?' story I wrote (re: making out on the sofa). That's where they wanted to go though! Really!

"It is an old English tradition to mix symbolic objects into the birthday cake as it is being prepared (in medieval times, objects such as coins and thimbles were mixed into the batter). People believed that the person who got the coin would be wealthy, while the unlucky finder of the thimble would never marry. Today, small figures, fake coins and small candies are more common. Guests are warned ahead of time as well, so that no one injures their teeth or swallows a tiny treasure." (From http/ www. coolest-kid-birthday-parties . c o m / birthday - traditions . html )

Really, it's not misspelled: http// en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Chaise(underscore)longue


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